Net Prophet

I send you this dispatch while sitting in a bourgeois salon. It sits on a cobblestone street in a Paris neighborhood, which I have long forgotten the name of. In fact, if by my description you recognize this corner of old Paris, please let me know. I find myself quite lost.

At the request of my editor, I began a journey this morning into the French countryside. The streets were lined with chestnut trees and the hedgerows full of wild berries. I made my trek on a tandem bicycle. Pedaling in front was a man I had met the previous afternoon. I have since lost the name of my new friend in the bowels of my memory, so clouded as my head is with the thoughts of last night’s journey to a local restaurant, at which I found myself dressed in a native T-shirt embroidered with the words Hard Rock Café.

We continued until the chestnuts turned to oaks. We arrived at a country chalet that seemed plucked from a side street of Ward Parkway. With the exception of the large neon signs flashing messages in a mysterious language. Perhaps French.

In any instance, I removed my yellow galoshes and entered the sitting room. Inside were several gregarious women. “I am here to find my first blog,” I announced with pride. There was some confusion in the translation, but one of the women, wearing a loose-fitting corset, directed me to a room upstairs.

Now, as a Missouri gentleman, I cannot repeat what occurred in the bedroom, appointed as it was with flowery toile. It soon became clear that my editor found it comical to position me like a pair of springtime swine, grunting in ways that reminded me of the lavatory. It will be many years before I will forget my first blog.